Brown’s Bridge

I called you as I was crossing

the bridge that connects us.

The moon was full and bright,

and it made the lake sparkle.

I went in search of a word to describe

the hair color of a character

I was working on.

I asked you to help me find one.

Perhaps I hoped it would give me

some insight into how you might

describe me.

But there was no poetry in you.

You said brown-

not chestnut, or warm praline.

Nothing you could smell or taste.

I suppose I wanted to believe

you thought of me with all your senses.

I journeyed back across the bridge,

the only thing that connects us.